


His Lovely, Hellish Boardroom

by LittleObsessions



Category: Addams Family - All Media Types
Genre: Bondage, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gomezisashark, Humiliation, Married Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 08:15:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27660040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleObsessions/pseuds/LittleObsessions
Summary: “I do business with the same people, occasionally,” he says softly and, dare she say it, with a keenness which takes her by surprise.She smiles, kisses his lips softly.“I am sure I will be in town again.”
Relationships: Gomez Addams/Morticia Addams
Comments: 8
Kudos: 36





	His Lovely, Hellish Boardroom

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely Midnightlovestories and Aftensjerne's fault. 
> 
> But I did write it, so a portion of the blame should be attributed to me.
> 
> Thanks to Midnightlovestories for beta-ing. And Aftensjerne for cheerleading me when I really didn't like this fic.

* * *

He sits back, looks at the man in front of him. There are beads of sweat gathering on his forehead, and he is mopping at his brow with an already-damp handkerchief.

He’s about to disintegrate and not before time too.

Dusk is setting over the city, peeking a powdery violet in between the soaring skyscrapers. He flicks the cuff of his shirt to pull back, revealing his gold submariner, with the cobalt blue face. A gift from his wife, a lucky charm.

He keeps it exclusively for acquisitions. They require a particular type of aesthetic; and the timepiece fits the bill perfectly.

They have been here for ten hours. A new record.

Gomez Addams is starting to worry he’s getting soft in his old age.

“This company has been in my family for three generations,” the man across the conference table says, and Gomez recognizes the tone of defeat as it creeps into his words.

“And it won’t survive another,” Gomez says softly, and he sees Williamson smile out of the corner of his eye. His friend has seen this tactic before, though Gomez rarely has to resort to it.

“You let us buy you out, and your company survives,” he murmurs softly. “And I will honour that.”

He pauses.

“But the reality is you are sinking, and I am your only hope. Your rope is short, and you are dangling at the end of it.”

The man across the table squirms in his seat. His son’s, to his left, face is a grimace of acknowledgment.

“And I am bored,” Gomez sits back, smooths his tie – monogrammed ‘G.A.’ -. “And I have an appointment to keep.”

The man’s face crumples, folds in on itself.

And delight fills Gomez’s chest.

“You can use my pen if you wish,” he says, pushing it across the table.

**-0-0-**

“I will just get out here,” she tells the driver, pushing the button on the partition as she stares out into the traffic. “Please.”

They are nose-to-tail in a sea of cabs and tired hedge-funders in their sleek sedans, and mothers in SUVs, and public buses, and they are only a block away from her husband’s downtown office.

The walk will be bracing, she thinks, and she has time to kill at any rate.

The driver – a company they have on retainer – smiles politely and nods, drawing the creeping car to a stop.

“Wait for us at the restaurant, please.”

The sidewalk is entirely more bearable than the confined space of the car, and noisy and glorious in a way she finds startling. It is amongst her lesser-refined qualities that she loves the hustle and noise and chaos of the city, teeming with an urgency of life she is eternally intrigued by.

New York has a wild ambition, a darkness that is always just below the surface.

It speaks to her, she thinks, on a personal level.

She pulls her coat – a trench coat made of the deepest black velvet – tighter around her and turns the corner of the block, coming face to face with the Bull and rolling her eyes at the very braggadocio of it all, before walking a few more yards and stopping outside of the imposing brass doors of the building in which her husband’s business(es) does the majority of its trading.

The Addams Manor may well be named after his bloodline, but it is her territory.

Here, there is an entirely different feel to everything. The doorman and security greet her with the deference of people who know who she is, but only in the abstract, before she takes the elevator up to the highest floor.

It always feels strange to be here. It is a place she frequents rarely, and she likes it that way, paired with the expectation that her husband will leave any of the more sordid realities of what he does firmly behind those brass doors.

Morticia is not at all naïve about any of it, but she sees it as entirely separate from their domestic life. And she is content with that.

The lift pings to announce her presence, but the halls that lead to his office are practically silent, apart from muffled voices. She realizes almost immediately that they are coming from the conference room; a foreboding, mahogany chamber that dominates the east corner of the uppermost floor.

She deems it invasive to knock, or enter, so instead settles in the leather seats which are hidden just out of view of the imposing doors, which are lying open. The violet light of sunset throws the shadows of the men at the table into relief, against the shining windows.

She tastes tension in the air almost immediately, the moment she begins listening properly.

“It isn’t a fair deal.”

Whoever is speaking sounds fraught, and she can hear terror lacing the deep voice as she sits back further in the Queen Anne.

She knows, of course, that listening is extremely imprudent, but – as loathsome as it is – she is curious.

Curious to observe an element of her husband in a territory she otherwise feels should remain private, unless – of course – the opportunity presents itself.

And it has done, readily.

So, really, she reasons, listening isn’t impertinent when it is unintentional.

There is a pause before a voice she recognizes instantly, speaks. There is a quality to it, though, that is different; something pernicious, and controlled in a way she had not anticipated.

“Mr Arran,” her husband says, calm and slow, as if he is speaking to an impetuous child. “I am growing bored. Sign the contract.”

There’s a pause.

“You’re killing me here Addams.”

She steals a glance at their reflections, pressed against the backdrop of the sky, and watches her husband leans forward, his body aggressive, intimidating, as he seems to loom over the man across the table.

As surprising as it is, she finds herself squeezing her thighs together as she watches his reflection – this stranger she has shared a bed with for over a decade, this man she knows intimately and who is paradoxically entirely strange to her –,feels her tongue sneaking out to moisten her lips, which are suddenly longing and hungry.

“That is the point,” her husband says lowly. “I don’t want to press you, but you are forcing my hand. And if you walk away from this table, you know you will be back, before this quarter is out…begging me to buy you over.”

There is something voyeuristic about seeing him like this, and her body starts to thrum with anticipation, with a flutter of desire that she is both shocked and delighted by.

This is a person she suspected existed – indeed she knew he did in a general way – but she has never been in his company before. Yes, he has made demands of her when she has permitted it, when she has given him her power and by virtue of that, retained it entirely.

She bites her lip, crosses and uncrosses her legs. Readjusts just slightly in the chair so she can see more of their reflections against the glass.

“And the offer on the table will be far less…amiable,” her husband continues, hand slamming down on the thick slab of contract in the middle of the table, “than this one here.”

The other man is shaking now, his reflection trembling in the glass as her husband sits back, and checks his watch.

His gold submariner; a gift from her.

“Mr Addams really does have an app-“ Williamson speaks, but the trembling man interrupts him.

“I know! I know.”

What he does not know is the appointment Mr Addams has to keep is currently sitting just outside the conference room, her breathing shallow, her imagination suddenly on fire, fuelled by longing and the sudden excitement of watching her husband be so fully, completely in control.

Her husband to be so fearless, and so…unforgiving.

“Mr Arran,” her husband’s voice is like velvet, pitying, guileful. “This is inevitable.”

Had the man’s response been physical, she imagines it would look something like whiplash. Resigned, his fingers weak and miserable, he reaches out to retrieve the pen that has been lying on the No-Man’s Land of the table, and uncaps it.

“That’s the man,” Gomez speaks, voice laced with delight and pity and condescension.

Mr Arran’s sobs are patently evident, if quiet, as he scribbles his name.

“I’ll send over the rest of the paperwork in the morning,” Williamson says, formally. “We have a week to complete the acquisition and finalize the details. Let me see you out.”

She watches as the group emerges, without Gomez; Williamson, the weeping Mr Arran and a young man who holds his arm, and a bevy of Gomez’s lawyers and staff who work closely with him and who she knows only in passing.

Putting a finger to her lips, she catches Williamson’s eye and, with a deferential nod, he pretends she isn’t there at all.

She lets them pass, watching them go until they have moved towards the lifts and there is silence again.

And then she stands, trying to smother the frisson of arousal that is fluttering unmistaken in her belly.

But she can’t, most definitely because she doesn’t want to. It is a half-baked attempt at convincing herself that this isn’t exactly what she intends.

She stands at the conference door for a moment, observing him in his moment of silence. His cigar burns in the purple darkness, and while there is power in every line of his body, there is exhaustion too. His head is dipped, his eyes are closed.

And for a moment, she wants to comfort him.

But she is never that altruistic when it comes to the pursuit of her own satisfaction, and he had married her all-too-willingly with full knowledge of that.

It occurs to her, though, that he still manages to surprise her.

An unfailing gentleman, a magnificent lover, a dedicated father, and – apparently – a violent shark in the boardroom.

Her thighs tingle.

“I must get going,” he says, eyes still closed, and she realizes he thinks she is Williamson. “I don’t want to keep Tish waiting. I am losing my touch…ten hours. ”

“I wouldn’t be opposed to ten hours.”

His eyes snap open, and he grins at her implication.

“What a lovely surprise cara mia.”

She nods, in full agreement.

“I’ve had a few surprises tonight,” she says, moving into the dark conference room.

The city burns behind him, the darkness shot by the millions of lights, disconcerting and wonderous. Wall Street throbs below them. And her pulse quickens.

“Oh?”

“Oh.”

She comes to stand in front of him as he twists his imposing chair round, so the windows are to the side of them, throwing him into the half-light, half-darkness.

It’s a fitting metaphor.

“Eavesdropping?” He asks.

She stops moving towards to him, struck by the note of hardness in his ordinarily soft voice. It throws her off balance for a moment.

And then she understands.

“I was.”

He says nothing, leaving her hanging there, awaiting his response, as he flicks the cuff of his shirt and blazer back and checks his watch.

And she is left genuinely breathless by the disdain he is exhibiting.

“You do know that it is extremely inappropriate?”

She nods, tries to calm her racing heart, lowers her chin and her eyes and tries to sink into the unfamiliar feeling of being chastised by her husband.

“This is my boardroom, and you think you can…intrude, as if you are somehow entitled,” he says, voice a resolute whisper. “Look at me.”

She does as she is asked, dressing her face in shame.

His own is hard, and antagonistic, and a flash of fear sparks through her when she realises this is sometimes who he is.

Fear…and something else too; which pools in her belly and tightens her nipples.

It becomes startlingly clear to her, in that moment, that there will be no restaurant, no shared wine and intimate conversation, no slow slide into seduction.

She won’t be able to leave this room until he has turned that fierceness on her. Until he has found release, and she has too, in the very depths of her body.

He sits back, and drags his eyes in slow, humiliating, examination from her chagrined face to the points of her shining stilettos.

“Strip.”

“Is that a demand you make of all your acquisitions?” She asks, in a moment of uncalculated acerbity, forgetting she has silently agreed to this exhibition.

She flinches when he slams his palm hard, so hard it makes a ferocious bang, onto the conference room table, and promptly reminds her.

“You’re not in a position to ask,” he stands, hand still on the table, and his other hand goes to his belt buckle, where he begins pulling to release it. “Strip.”

She can’t take here eyes from his nimble fingers as they make quick work of the belt – solidifying his unspoken threat – but she does untie her own, her fingers trembling, letting her coat fall open.

He is watching her with eyes which are a shade of black she swears she has never seen before.

It occurs to her that, while there is some spectacle in his behaviour, this is an authentic portrayal of her husband as businessman. A man who has limits she didn’t know existed.

“You won’t survive in business with a pace as slow as that,” he withdraws the belt from the loops of his pinstripe trousers, and it makes a soft crack as it disrupts the air and comes to rest by his side.

She is wet and wanting and uneasy.

And she has never felt like this before, not in all of their years of marriage.

Because this is an unmeasured, ruthless man.

And she wants him so much it is painful.

“May we close the door?” She asks in her best, most delicate attempt at coyness.

He smiles – a spectre of her husband – but then he shakes his head, “You don’t lead these negotiations, I do. And if you were brave enough to listen, you are brave enough to reap the consequences.” He motions to her dress. “I won’t ask again.”

She trusts him, even if she does not know him, because she knows every other piece of this man.

He sits back in his seat, putting the belt – coiled and ready – on the table beside him.

“Slowly. And with your back to the window.”

She moves to the spot he has instructed, and he spins his chair to follow her. His tongue slides onto his lips to moisten them, and it is the first real crack in a façade that is far better constructed than she anticipated.

She stands in front of the windows, her back to the glistening lights of the city.

“So that anyone who is coming can watch you, as you did my previous meeting, I am sure.”

She feels humiliation flaring across her chest but says nothing.

“But don’t worry, if anyone does come back, they’ll hear you screaming…long before they see what I am doing to you.”

She feels faint for a moment, longing for him to fulfil that promise.

“Continue.”

He watches as she he does as she’s asked, without complaint, with slow, affected movements as she reaches behind her own back and unzips the dress, sliding it down her arms, letting it linger before pulling it to gather at her waist and stopping, plaintive, for a moment.

“Are you struggling there?”

“No.”

“Denial is always the first response in these kinds of negotiations. We’ll continue then.”

His tone is condescending and brutish, and it makes her nipples tighten in the cool air.

She does as she is ordered, pushing her dress down the length of her legs and sliding it away with her foot.

She stands then, in her elaborate underwear – a confection of silk and lace, of intricate, delicate patterns intended to tear under his wild hands and teeth much later in the evening – and lets him examine her.

“Some acquisitions just keep on giving,” he says, after what feels like hours of scrutiny.

Not that it makes her feel uncomfortable; it has entirely the opposite effect.

“I am concerned, though, that you don’t know what it means to ‘strip’. You still have underwear on.”

She twists her arms behind herself and unclasps her bra, letting it slide to her wrist to toss it away.

He doesn’t even flinch. Usually he would moan, or groan, or do something because he has never been one for doing nothing.

Especially when it comes to her body.

But he is motionless, emotionless.

It is terrifying and beguiling all at once.

He stares hard, and she realises she has been so lost in analysing his behaviour that she still has panties on.

“I always get what I want in this room.”

He says it so seriously, entirely absent of facetiousness or blithe banter, that a shiver travels through her as she hooks her fingers into her waistband.

She makes quite the display of wriggling them down her legs, pushing her hands along with them, and coming back agonisingly slowly, leaving them at her feet.

“Now we can see the real assets,” he says, leering, lecherous.

Her muscles contract.

If she had ever considered this kind of double-entendre to be crass in the past, she reconsiders it in the present.

He scrutinises her for a moment, clasped hands coming to below his chin as he contemplates.

“Usually the people I meet in here are on their knees.”

She does smile this time, even though his face remains completely impassive, and she follows the implication as quickly as he makes it, sinking to her knees on the plush maroon carpet.

He crooks his finger and she know what he wants and for a moment she hesitates. On the spectrum of things they do often or rarely, it certainly occupies the latter. Though when she does do it, as simple a gesture as it is, it sends him into a tailspin.

Usually she is the one leading the negotiations, as it were.

“Non-negotiable,” he says into the room, picking up on her hesitation, his voice cracking like electricity across the silence.

She begins to crawl, eyes never leaving his face, teeth cutting into her starved bottom lip.

“You see,” he says as she reaches him and sits back on her heels in front of him, “I like the guests in this boardroom to know who is in charge.”

“I certainly have no doubt now,” she answers, staring into his eyes.

“I have a few more things I need to know,” he says softly - that tone of patronising, solicitous pity that had first drawn her into listening, colouring his voice again. “Before we bring negotiations to a conclusion.”

“People come here thinking I will save them. But that isn’t my business. My business is getting what I want and turning it into a profitable venture for me. Do you understand that?”

She trembles as his fingers trail softly, delicately, through her hair. She swallows.

“Yes.”

“And I like to examine every little facet of whatever I’m acquiring,” he continues, his fingers scorching their way down the column of her neck.

His fingers alight on her breast, and he tugs deftly at her nipple.

She remains defiant, even though the jolt of pain makes her want to wince and then moan in delight.

“Lesser people than you have given in to their worst emotions in this room,” he says, as if he’s discussing something entirely casual.

He twists and pulls and squeezes until she is tense with determination, swallowing the overwhelming urge to gasp and writhe under his skilled hands. He looms over her, moving forward to push her hair away with his other hand and sink his teeth into the tender skin of her neck.

It feels so delicious that it makes her want to sob. The strangled notes of desire she has been supressing bubble forth, leave her mouth in a low, pining moan and gasp and breath.

“Emotions are the first thing I have to bring under my influence,” he murmurs, voice satisfied and supercilious, as he traces the shell of her ear with his tongue.

He sits back after a second and then he reaches back for the belt, pulling it into his lap.

“Secondly I have to wrangle their wilder impulses into my control,” he unravels the belt. “Stand. And face the window and put your hands behind you.”

They are hundreds of feet up in the air, and darkness has enrobed the city, so they are shadowed and hidden and lingering in the world between night and day.

And she feels completely untethered to any sense of reality.

He begins to wind the belt, looping it around her wrists, loose at first but tighter and tighter and tighter still.

“Sometimes you have to show them that the pain of resisting will be worse than capitulating,” he says, with one last burning pull to pass it through the buckle and loop.

Tears of release and fear and horror and overwhelming love begin to pool in her eyes. She tries to blink them away.

“I’ve made men cry in here,” he says, and she isn’t entirely sure how he knows that she is weeping. “Tears are nothing new.”

Then again, she isn’t sure about anything that is happening here. Her world has been tilted on its axis.

But her trust in him, his knowledge of her limits, is reassuring to recall.

He moves round in front of her, limiting her view of the city, and thumbs her cheek to swipe the tears away.

“When they start sobbing, I know they’re close to crumbling,” he says gently. “And on a rare occasion, I feel genuinely sorry.”

He kisses her, his tongue pushing into her mouth, the taste of cigars and cruelty and hard words a heady concoction as she tries to consume him as equally as he does her. It isn’t satisfying; it does entirely the opposite in that it makes her ravenous, makes her want more of his mouth on her, anywhere. Everywhere.

But that is not her decision to make.

He pulls back and she whines her desperation; unmeasured, wanton.

He lets her finish before he speaks:

“And occasionally, they offer themselves on a platter to me.”

Humiliation surges through her, and she wants to lash out at him.

It is liberating. It is grossly embarrassing. And she is aching with desire.

She whimpers but cannot bring herself to look at him.

“And sometimes they just want it to be over. Is that what you want?”

“Yes…no – I don’t know,” she stumbles over her own words, horrified at how shaken she is, and how ardently she desires this man who frightens her.

“That is where I am very good at this,” he says softly, palm pressing against her stomach, pushing down until he cups her roughly, fully, in an act of possession so explicit that it makes her want to rage and surrender all at once. “Confusing them until they’re not entirely sure what the best course of action is.”

“Oh I could tell you that,” she snaps as his fingers caress her, words nearly as hard as his.

But he doesn’t withdraw, instead he grins like a demon and pulses his hand and she wants to howl with frustration and desire and fury as the motion illicit the tiniest bit of pressure against her clit.

“And just before they finally cave,” he says, fingers pushing to slide along her folds, “they often become furious again. But all the tell-tale signs are there.”

He withdraws his fingers, slick with wetness, and holds them up to her face, and to the slither of light between them, where they glisten.

“Always a tell.”

She hates him in that moment, and it drives something in her she didn’t know existed. She is trembling with desperation.

And with the revelation of this man she wishes she had met long before now.

“And after they’ve given all of that away?” She manages to bite out, and a flourish of shock plays on his face before he schools it again.

“I take everything that I wanted anyway,” he says softly, as if she doesn’t already know that.

“Please…”

She is too far gone to care about sounding weak.

He grabs her suddenly, spinning her so her back is to the conference table. He pushes against her, using his powerful frame against her markedly less powerful one, until her rear is pressing against the edge, where it cuts into her flesh. He hooks his hands under her thighs and lifts up so she is sitting on the edge, and he forces her legs apart as she falls backwards, so desiring of him that she can’t watch the space between.

All she wants to do is feel.

And when he thrusts into her, hostile, demanding, the screams he promised her find voice in his lovely, hellish boardroom. They fill the room as he presses into her with a menace she has witnesses rarely, and as he pushes his body forward to slam his palms down on either side of her face.

He is powerful and everywhere all at once and his body grinding against hers winds every sinew of her tighter and tighter and tighter, and she cannot tell him, cannot use her hands to leverage herself to look at him. Cannot plead with him to stop while begging him for more.

It is another world entirely.

“Come…give me what I want.”

She does exactly as she is asked, wasting no time on the pretence of denying him what he has so rightly earned.

She cries out, his name pushing its way across her tongue in pulses of recognition of him as every nerve catches fire, and her climax surges through her.

It only occurs to her, as her orgasm dies out, that it is the first time either of them have uttered each other’s names.

“Not enough. I like to exact every last benefit.”

He growls, and then scoops his arm under her to right her again, pulling away from the table. He is astute enough to know she won’t be able to trust her legs, and he carries her until she is at the window; naked, where he is fully clothed apart from the obscene erection jutting from the opening in his trousers. She is awash with terror where he is composure personified. She is desperate, where he is calm beyond measure.

“Turn,” he grips her hip and moves her into place, and swiftly removes the belt so her arms hang by her side as the blood rushes back into her fingertips.

He laces her fingers with his, and then brings them up to press flat against the glass.

While he does not say she cannot remove them, she understands it for the instruction it is.

“Every last benefit,” he says, pushing his cock into her from behind, and it makes her curl up on her toes and reflexively push away from him.

A firm hand on her shoulder returns her to her place, and then it trails down to find her clitoris and circle ferociously, working her to the very limits of her body’s boundaries.

“I take every last thing I can get,” he growls, fucking into her as he speaks, and she is lost for words and cannot imagine what she would say even if she could respond.

The city, Wall Street, the world at their feet blurs in her vision as he presses her into the glass and fucks her until she screams her completion a second time and it sets fire to her, exploding across every aching muscle and frayed nerve.

He doesn’t tell her he is about to come but she feels it vaguely, from a place she knows it but can’t acknowledge it, and then he is emptying himself inside her.

He does not once say her name, and for a long-time silence claims them as he presses his cheek against the back of her head and their breathing steadies and their bodies cool.

Eventually, she speaks; breaking the sleeping silence, the hot quiet of satisfaction.

“I need to move,” she whispers softly. “I am cold.”

He lifts his weight from her, pulls out of her body, takes his hands from around her waist.

And when she turns her husband is back in the room, taking off his blazer to drape it over her shoulders.

“Better querida?”

She nods and looks at him and there is amusement and trepidation on his face.

“You are very astute in business,” she eventually decides on.

He looks relieved, and she is glad the dynamic has shifted back to its status quo. But she is bereft too, in a way.

He must see it because he reaches out and pulls her closer, and his body is warm and soft and familiar.

“I do business with the same people, occasionally,” he says softly and, dare she say it, with a keenness which takes her by surprise.

She smiles, kisses his lips.

“I am sure I will be in town again.”


End file.
